I Found a Broken Puppet
by Zeff N Company
Summary: Originally We Were Punch and Judy, in honor of Rain Falls Softly by Hanae da Firefly - They were a pair of beggars, one blind and the other crippled, and all they had was each other... until the day they decided to see the world. AU, with implied Cleon.
1. Chapter 1

_Originally published on October 3rd 2008, _We were Punch and Judy_ was ____i_nspired by Hanae da Firefly_'s story,_ Rain Falls Softly.

_Recently, I've spent my time in looking over it with the knowledge that I can fix it, make it bigger and better. As consequence, due to the story's expanded girth, I'm breaking it up into smaller chapters that I find easier to read (Also, it cuts short the waiting time for me to get all of it done). There's so much stuff that I didn't cover before, now making their way in. __ It's not prefect, but it's still an improvement if I do say so myself. I hope you will agree._

_Dedication: to _Hanae_ herself, for writing her story, and to _pyjamaTerra_ and _Axurel_ for their shows of support._

* * *

The first time they met, was the first and only time Cloud had ever heard his true voice. Who knew the odds of it happening, but the fact that it had was only a result of sheer dumb luck, for he had caught the other off guard – for a fellow beggar, that one had been as ignorant as all others in thinking he could get an easy upper hand over a blind man. But Cloud had known at once that he was no longer alone, for he heard something squeaking, and there was a low and irritating mewling, of something rubbing against the pavement.

And then it had stopped – just a small distance away, somewhere to his right – and whoever it was had stayed there. Replacing it was instead a single muted "clunk" of a tin pan against stone, a sound he knew only too well from doing it every day of his life in the streets. He knew exactly what that meant: he had a new neighbor – a new rival for what little money he could earn here. He was not happy with that arrangement at all.

"Push off," he snapped. There was an abrupt halt in any sound at all, perhaps because he had surprised the other. "This is my spot. Go find your own."

For a little while, the unnerving silence continued. Then, he heard his new neighbor rumble back a retort, in a voice that was a deep, rich baritone: "I don't see your name on it."

"Of course not, fool. You don't know my name," he fired back sarcastically. His frown tightened into a thin line, and his eyes narrowed in his best glare even if he could not see the man to properly aim it at him. "Now _beat it_."

There was a soft huff – he assumed the newcomer was taking a moment to size him up – and then he heard a throaty sound that was perhaps a hoarse cough… or a laugh. Then he realized it _was_ a laugh, albeit croaky from an obvious lack of hydration, as the other seemed to think little of him. Instead, he was calling out a challenge with new smugness:

"Come over here and _make me_."

The tone was condescending and ugly, rubbing Cloud the wrong way each time he ran it through his head. Again, the other was looking down on him for lacking one of the five senses, thinking him a pushover that couldn't defend his own turf. And Cloud knew he could – he _should_ have, even – if he tried hard enough. But instead he stayed unmoving from his place on the steps, glaring at the air as the intruder remained so out of reach.

He heard a whistling, a strange warped tune that seemed to mock him even further. That, he decided, was the last straw. Sweeping his hand along the pavement, he chanced upon a sizeable handful of gravel. He focused, listening to the whistling, homing in… then he let those stone crumbs fly. Instead of the direct impact he had hoped for, it was almost disappointing to instead hear the gravel connect with the wall before dropping and scattering all over again. Regardless, his target had been hit, if the yelp of protest meant anything.

"What in hell are you _doing_?"

Raising a brow, Cloud leaned back at last as he thoughtfully commented: "You're a lot shorter than I expected."

There was a soft inhalation of air, then an amused reply: "And what _were_ you expecting?"

There was no more time to give answers – that dialogue itself was never concluded – as Cloud's sensitive ears heard the incoming stampede of footsteps getting closer with each heartbeat. There was the telltale pattering of running children, the deliberate scuffing of disgruntled adolescents, the heavier treads of busy adults, the occasional grinding of gears and rubber from the bicycles… Not a sound could escape him, and all he could do to drown it out was lift his instrument upon his lap and start to explore its surface all over again.

It was rough, grimy wood under his fingers, one hand finding where the old banjo's slender neck was, and the other fingering each of its six strings. Cloud imagined that this thing was a beauty once – maybe it had belonged to some fool prodigal who willfully abandoned it just because it wasn't a guitar – before it ended up in a pile of garbage where he had found it. He did not know enough to fix a banjo, but he knew enough to play, and there in his hands the instrument came back to life, playing an uneven lilting tune.

He could hear scratching against the pavement – knowing at once that curious listeners were stopping to hear more – and already his mind ran through several of his nameless pieces, searching for one that might be appropriate for the moment. Yet, before he could pinpoint any one of them, a second lilting tune flitted through his ears. It was no string instrument that played this second piece, but a wind instrument. It wasn't even really any song he could identify, more of random notes that seemed to fit with whatever he was still strumming on the banjo.

That was when he remembered his new neighbor was still there, already starting to make a right nuisance of himself. Cloud ground his molars together – controlling his temper if only to prevent himself from scaring the crowd away – and just kept playing. Next to him, that tune kept right on accompanying it. It was harder and harder to ignore its presence, as the two strange tunes played by two different strangers came together in a dance of notes.

Now and then, there was a low thumping of a hand hitting a wooden surface, but what confused the blind beggar was that it wasn't a drum he was hearing. It wasn't hollow enough to be one. Whatever it was, it seemed to suffice, bringing a rhythm to the music that they were both apparently making up as they went. Cloud could hear laughter, and momentarily wondered if this new guy was part clown in his act or just insane. Most who lived on the streets did tend to lose their minds eventually, though they were left alone so long as they remained harmless.

There wasn't a lot he could do to think further about it, but eventually both had to stop. The tips of his fingers had gone numb from the constant strumming, and at his side he heard his neighbor's wheezing gasps for breath. The sound was covered almost at once by applause, followed by a chorus of chiming – true music to _his_ ears – of the coins that hit not one but two collection pans. He barely caught what he could only describe as a wet "plopping" sound before an entirely unexpected voice rang out:

"_Thank you, ladies and gentlemen! You've been a wonderful audience!_"

It wasn't much of a voice, really, more of a harsh rasping sound, as though a helium balloon and a drunken teenager had come together at some point. Figurative helium and adolescent aside, he could not help but find that voice so vaguely familiar. It seemed he had once heard a voice like that from his childhood – a childhood where he was still blessed with colors and light. The owner of that voice broke into a depraved chortle, and again that strangely familiar sound teased at his sensitive ears over and over again.

Then he decided he had heard enough, and put that point across.

"_Ay!_" that strange voice yelped, more dramatically than the deep baritone of earlier had. "_Stop hitting me!_"

"Shut up, then!" Cloud retorted tersely. Another handful of gravel hit the wall to shower on the undignified heckler. "Just shut up!"

"_There's violence in the system!_" the voice hollered. If it were mocking him or baiting the crowd, he was not entirely sure anymore. "_Help, help! I'm being repressed!_"

Again, those people were laughing, and as the occasional chime of added coins hit his pan, Cloud knew he had lost this round. The attacks stopped and he sat back, his head nodding in silent gratitude as the crowd kept moving along. Neither seemed ready to start up round two, if the persisting pants meant anything. As they started to slow, there was, quite suddenly, a low clatter and scratching of tin against gravel before tin collided with tin.

"_Peace offering_," the lilting voice explained. "_I don't want to fight with you over this place._"

He scoffed, but made no move to touch either pan. "Then you can just leave. I don't intend to move."

"_Well, I don't either._"

"There are plenty of better places to earn coins from."

"_But this one is sheltered,_" the voice pointed out at last. "_I kind of need that right now._"

Cloud would have asked why, but there was something in that last sentence – a barely hidden plea. Whatever he could not see affecting the newcomer, it seemed enough to warrant desperation for a place that was less damp. A place like this one…

Finding the second pan – laced with a hint of rust and copper – he swung it back in the direction of the voice without taking anything from it. He heard it collide with something hard before it was pushed once more against the pavement. Still his new companion remained silent and waiting, and he at last gave his answer begrudgingly.

"Do what you want."

There was a merry whistling – a sound to substitute hoarse laughter and depraved chortling – before his new companion spoke again, still in that irritating lilt: "_The name's Leon. What's yours?_"

"Cloud," he answered simply, before: "What the hell is wrong with your voice?"

"_What are you talking about? There's nothing wrong with my voice,_" the other – Leon – protested mildly. "_It's just, you know, kind of tongue-in-cheek at the moment._"

"Don't play with me, _Leon_," Cloud warned. "You already talked to me in your real voice. I know this one's a fake."

"_That wasn't Leon's voice earlier,_" Leon explained. "_This is._"

Cloud growled again, feeling renewed irritation rising up. "Are you making fun of me, or are you half mad?"

"_As long as I'm here, this will be the only voice you'll hear me use,_" the other stated. If he was serious at all, that ridiculous lilt did not pronounce it.

"Well, it annoys me. Unless that was your purpose…?"

There were no words in counter – just more of that inane whistling. It served no purpose but to fill the silence with _something_, and the blond gave up again, planting his forehead into his palm.

* * *

He never could convince this irritating intruder into his life to leave, and said intruder was always there when he returned to the steps outside the old train station of Twilight Town. He could have been sleeping there for all he knew. Regardless, as time passed them both by, Cloud found himself helplessly starting to accept and associate that distinctive squawking voice with the man called Leon, for he kept his word: that first voice in its deep baritone was never heard again, as though it had never been used.

And still, Leon continued to irritate him with something akin to a jester's manner, leaving Cloud continuously uncertain if it were a matter of mental health or a false front. When both threat and bribe failed to make the man stop, Cloud at last resigned himself to apathy. With that apathy he slowly gained a tolerance for the other's strange heckling ways, and that in turn grew into a comfortable knowledge.

With so many days, so many weeks, of hearing that voice by his ear over and over again, Leon and his annoying lilting "voice" had become yet another constant in his life. His whistling filled the otherwise uncomfortable silences that used to be commonplace before all this. Just the knowledge of another's presence beside him changed so much about the life he had previously been so comfortable with, growing with each day into a new form of comfort that he did not really dislike that much.

Somehow, just like that, the perceived intruder had become something akin to an acquaintance along this cold, lonely pavement.

In the days that passed, in the hours that had little human traffic, Leon took it upon himself to explain something called "_the Punch and Judy_" to Cloud. His descriptions were vivid, allowing detailed mental depictions to form with his tales about seaside stalls that were the homes of several wooden hand puppets, each of a diverse shape, size and personality. Amongst them all, one always stood out amongst the rest – a hunchbacked joker with a hooked nose and jutting chin, delighting in murder as Goldilocks delighted in housebreaking.

"_There is a tradition about Punch,_" he explained now, still using the voice that Cloud learned was actually related to the aforementioned puppet. "_He never leaves the right hand. All other puppets on the left are swapped after they exit stage right. Punch, though, never leaves, never gets replaced. He is always there, and after each adversary arrives and falls, he is still there._"

Cloud hummed in understanding. "… What about Judy?"

"_In most scripts, she leaves Punch pretty quickly,_" Leon admitted with a whistling chortle. "_Ironic, considering she's in the title with him._"

"I'm surprised she stuck around long enough to have a kid with him in the first place."

"_Who knows, maybe she's quite mad herself,_" he replied. "_It would take a madwoman to marry a madman, after all. They can't cure each other of their ailments, but misery loves company._"

There was truth in that bit of humor, but as usual, their momentary banter was cut short by the first commuters of the day that were starting to emerge from the train station. To his side, he heard something softly clinking – something that knocked at the insides of the man's teeth – as Leon played with his "voice" before spitting it out with a fake cough. Cloud had long since stopped questioning it, dismissing it as yet another mystery following this enigmatic man.

In that short window of opportunity before the people came to them, Leon again went through the notes of each of his wind instruments, and Cloud identified each one in passing: first was a harmonica, the second was a recorder. Third was a set of pan pipes, and lastly was his personal favorite: an ocarina.

Leon's stories about the tools of his trade were always changing. Sometimes he glorified a charitable saint for giving them to him, and yet other times he claimed to have stolen them from a rich tyrant's brat. The drollest among them was how he had blackmailed a desperate fugitive for them, and the most outrageous one of all was how he boasted of killing an unlucky one-man-band – with his _thumb_ – and then looted the body for every one of those instruments that he found easier to carry. All throughout, Cloud was never able to guess which of these stories was real.

Now, before the gathering crowd, it was the pan pipes that sounded again, playing a tune that had become familiar for its cheery mood. It flitted through the air almost cheekily. Just listening to it, Cloud could almost imagine a faceless faun in Leon's place, playing with childish abandon and dancing a mad jig as he capered through the woodland. Sitting in his own lap was the old banjo he played, and Cloud was strumming with a beat he rarely used before. In the here and now, it was time for merriment, for they played a song about the good old life of long before.

Steadily, in his imaginings, the faun faded away, replaced instead by a hunchback jester with a hooked nose and a jutting chin. The little fool was hopping around jovially, and prancing beside him was a fair maiden. Any thought of her looks was dimmed by her overwhelming insanity that kept pace with her husband. The ghostly figures danced with one another, and he smiled as he relived yet another repetition of their conversation.

"_I say, Judy! Where EVER is that baby?!_" the imaginary Punch called in Leon's voice, bouncing up and down like a toddler.

"_Don't you remember, Punch? You threw him out the window!_" the imaginary Judy declared with equal merriment.

"_Hi now, did I?_"

"_Like a fool-all with a football!_"

"_Hey now, well of course! That's the way to do it!_"

He was smiling at the comical image that was his and his alone to cherish, and he sensed the other picking up on it to add on to their dual performance. About them, gathering and chattering amongst themselves, the crowd murmured their approval.

Now he heard them – young and old – all laughing: He heard the innocent giggles of children, who were so very young and naive, and most likely saw not the classic which spawned this joke. He heard the amused laughter of adolescents, who were old enough to have known that song, and enjoyed the mockery about what they probably thought foolish with the lyrics. He heard, also, the quiet and wistful chuckles of the adults, who were now too old for such things, and to be reminded of them again was like a blissful breath of air from their missed childhoods.

He heard the chiming of coins falling into his collection pan, more than he would have made had he been on his own. He heard the applause as they departed from the place, and each one still wearing out the last of the humor in their appreciative murmurs to one another. And then he heard once more the fake cough, the wet "plop", and at last that single soft "clink" again as Leon moved his "voice" around in his mouth. At once Cloud knew that they were done, and the tired old banjo rested once again on his lap for a momentary reprieve.

"The usual halves?" he called, to which there was an audible huff. A long, swift grinding reached his ears, and he automatically reached out and caught a second pan that had been slid over to him. Lifting both pans, he brought the contents together and shook them well. It was then that he started to sort: an equal amount of copper, an equal amount of nickel and an equal amount of paper. When at last he judged both to be of even weight, he slid Leon's pan back to him.

Leaving the other to his thoughts, Cloud began another piece of his own – slower than earlier, but still with some beat, he played the ballad from the old days. He played of a time before, as a testament to the war that the country's people were still recovering from… that _he_ was still recovering from. He was singing, but he did not register his own words. There in his mind, the memory was as fresh as when it had first happened: that one tragic air-raid from so long ago.

As he sang about peace and innocence, he thought of the mother he had lost that day, futilely struggling to save her child from a similar fate.

As he sang about love and mercy, he thought of the callousness of those who had dropped the bombs without a pause, flying away without so much as looking back.

As he sang about forgiveness for those who knew not the true horrors of what they did, he thought of that one little boy curled up in the wreckage of his own home, sobbing and shedding tears of blood from his ruined eyes.

In the clouded images his fading memories still had of that past life, he felt his chest tighten as those memories were replaced by darkness tainted with pain and screams. He still did not understand war or its necessity that people would even condone its happening, but all he could think of was how the whole affair seemed to be so useless and wasteful. Of the people who paused to hear his song, he wondered how many empathized amongst those who merely sympathized. He wondered if they felt the same way.

Then, next to him, he heard the ocarina playing alongside him. The tragic tune was echoed by an equally mournful wail, as the two beggars once again played together. This time, they were not doing it for laughs or for money. This time, they did it for that little boy who lost what was left of his childhood innocence that day. They did it for those who were hurt as much as those who were responsible for it all.

People were shuffling along again, moving away without actually running, each one disturbed and uncomfortable with the haunting provocative song that reminded them too much of all that they wished to forget. No more coins fell, and for that moment it did not really matter to either of the players. As Cloud ended with a final strummed note, Leon's lilting voice through the somber air commanded his attention.

"_If you keep bringing up the war every week, it's going to upset your collection._"

"But if I don't bring it up at all, people will forget it ever happened," Cloud reasoned solemnly, his fingers running along the rough surface of the banjo's neck. "We can't afford to forget it. As long as we remember it, we can change for the better."

Leon whistled softly. "_Do you truly believe that?_"

Cloud shrugged in a show of apathy, already reaching back to the pan to smooth out the small mound of metal discs that had gathered. "Faith is all I've got left."

The whistling stopped, giving way to a more sardonic tone that even the squawking could not mask. "_… Faith, huh…? That must be nice…_"

The wistful tone brought pause to his actions, and the blond tilted his head in an open display of puzzlement. "And what have _you_ lost that could take even _that_?"

As usual, the man gave no revelation to his past. Instead, the air was again filled with merry music. Yet, to his sharp ears, Cloud could only feel how… fake it sounded.

* * *

It was on a particular quiet day that Cloud at last found the truth behind the presence to his far right – a day that he would think about many times in the future, wondering if there were any way he could have done it all again.

"_Hey._"

"What?"

"_I want to see your eyes._"

That was how simple it had been: just one sentence to start it all. He had not thought much of the request, but he was not about to agree that easily either.

"Why the interest?" he asked instead.

"_Just curious,_" Leon answered vaguely. He may or may not have shrugged. "_You're always covering them. Does it hurt to expose them?_"

"Not really," he admitted.

"_So why hide them?_"

"So no one gets the wrong idea," he replied. His fingers had moved on their own accord, delicately touching the worn fabric wrapped around his head. "I don't need anyone getting too close to me just because they can't tell if I can see them or not."

There was a sympathetic whistle at his side, and Leon said nothing more. Yet, Cloud's interest was piqued, and it was his turn to get the other's attention. "Hey."

"_Yes?_"

"If I let you see my eyes," he paused to lick his dry lips, "will you let me see your face?"

This time, his companion scoffed. "_How will you do that?_"

"The usual way." And he emphasized with a deliberate wiggling of his fingers in the air.

"_Oh…_" Suddenly, there was a shift in the atmosphere. It felt a little less lighthearted, maybe a little more tense. He could hear the other shifting about, fidgeting. "_… You know what? I'm not that desperate to find out. Let's just forget it._"

It was Cloud's turn to probe, as he turned his head in the direction of Leon's lilting voice. "Why? What do you have to hide?"

"_Nothing to worry your pretty head over,_" the other retorted. "_Look, just drop it okay? Trust me when I say, you'll be a lot better off not knowing._"

For some reason or another, Cloud lost his patience and turned on the other with a growl. "Listen here, you arrogant prick. You keep asking about me and my personal life, and I've been truthful. You, on the other hand, have done nothing but avoid the subject or lie to me. Just what do you take me for – an idiot?"

As though not hearing him, Leon refused once more to answer. Instead, he had lifted his harmonica to his lips at some point, and was playing a strange tune in the air despite the fact that not a single passerby could be heard walking through the area. Decidedly fed up with it all, Cloud set down his banjo and staggered to his feet before he could think better of it, and surprised the other so suddenly that the harmonica broke off with a bad note.

A pause, then a careful 'clink', and Leon's raspy voice whispered through the still air: "_Here now, what's that you're up to?_"

"I'm sick of being the ignorant one," Cloud stated bluntly, homing in at once on the source of the voice as he stepped forward. He could almost feel the apprehension in the other – he could nearly _smell_ it – but still Leon never moved even as he protested.

"_Ignorance is your bliss, idiot. Stay on your side._"

The unconscious pleading in the usually mocking sound nearly brought pause to his steps, but Cloud was determined to finish what he had started. No more secrets, no more lies. Leon had eluded him for too long, and now he had enough with being so… _patronized_.

Leon had fallen silent, leaving him guessing for a specific location. He was obviously stalling, and it only irritated Cloud further. When at last his outstretched hand found the hard surface of a wall, he angled his head to the side, quick to follow the single lead of the stray bit of warmth at the bare skin on his knee where tattered cloth had been worn away.

"Get up," he ordered tersely. "The charade ends here."

Still did the silence persist, and then came the raspy reply:

"… _I can't._"

Cloud failed to realize it was not a retort he was given, but a confession. Instead, he felt his irritation give way to annoyance – so close to rage itself – and he squatted so swiftly that his head was swimming. Even through the sudden giddiness from the sudden change in altitude, he was reaching out, his fingers crooked like a hawk's talon after a fleeing marten. And then another hand met his, surprisingly gentle even as it held on with a reproving force. When Cloud at last brought his impulsive temper in check, he pushed against it, only to be met with equal pressure.

Now knowing for certain he had the other's attention, his other hand reached up to his face, snagging the fabric and jerking it roughly until the loose knot came free. As the comfort of the soft old cloth slipped from him, he opened his sightless eyes and raised his head a little.

"There," he declared sullenly. "Now take a good look."

"_This isn't-_" Leon started to protest again, but Cloud cut him off with a crushing grip on the fingers he held onto.

"Look," Cloud repeated, his tone soft but insistent.

At first there wasn't any answer, but then he felt fingers brush against the corner of his left eye. He nearly flinched away, but he held his ground and allowed what he realized was a thumb to carefully trace under his eye before coming away again.

"_They're beautiful,_" the lilting voice whispered.

Cloud huffed and shook his head, his eyes closing. "They're useless."

The fingers were back, brushing lightly against his eyebrow in a silent request. Obliging, Cloud opened his eyes again, and again the fingers moved away.

"_They change color in the light,_" Leon observed aloud. "_At times they are sky blue, and at others they are bright green._"

"I always remembered them to be only blue," Cloud admitted quietly. "Maybe something happened during the…"

He did not finish the thought, instead remembering the purpose of his crossing from one point to the next. Closing his eyes again, he did not open them another time as he reminded the other, "I've shown you what I look like. Now you show me what you look like."

"_It's not pretty,_" Leon warned in a halfhearted manner. But when Cloud pushed against him, this time he relented. His hand guided Cloud's forward and set it upon a cool surface of skin.

Cloud suddenly realized he was touching Leon's jawbone. His dexterous digits immediately went to work, dancing over flesh as his mind mapped out a hazy sketch of what the man he had worked so long with looked like. Under his touch, he found a muscular jaw, and then a sharp nose that he thought would look rather aristocratic if he could only see it. Then he found the scar that was angling just above that nose, and traced it until he found one end that was just above a brow, the other just below the opposing eye.

There had to be some sort of history behind that mark on the man's face, but he supposed it could wait for a less trying time. Instead, his thumb lingered on the scar further as his fingers inched upward, brushing away the mess of bangs to take in the rest of the face shape, where the roots started and curved away. The sketch of the face took its complete form, imprinting deep in his mind for future reference. At last he felt satisfied, and left his hand where it cupped the man's chin as he smirked.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" he remarked, "I don't see what you got all worked up for – you're pretty good-looking for a short guy."

"… _You're not done,_" the raspy voice admitted grudgingly, warm breath caressing the heel of Cloud's palm. Blond brows narrowed at once.

"… What do you mean?"

"_You want to know the truth about me, don't you?_" the lilting voice sounded strangely bitter with the man's challenge. "_I'm giving you the truth, as is, right now._"

Leon's hand – the same hand of earlier – suddenly touched his again, and carefully guided it away from his features, and brought it downward. Cloud took the moment to gently rake his fingers over old, filthy garments that had seen better days, and then froze awkwardly as both hands came to rest upon what he instantly recognized as a thigh. The hand that held his kept him firmly there, and started to move his captive palm down the limb's length, ever so slowly. The flushed feeling he had experienced but a moment ago faded away as he reached the end of that journey:

What he found, under his touch, was a leg that ended a point above where the knee should have been. Instead of the joint that he expected, he felt a rounded stump that was covered in the soft cloth of worn jeans. In a lingering moment of curiosity, he urged to find the other leg. The hand obliged him, and under his touch he discovered a similar situation there as well. He reached around them, and found under his fingers a liberally scratched surface. He rapped against it, finding the source that was Leon's "drum" at last.

He heard a soft sigh – felt the warm air tingling at his ear – as the exploration came well and truly to an end.

"_Now you know,_" Leon muttered. "_Now__ you're really done._"

Cloud felt his words catch in his throat, but could not bring his hand away. It was Leon who had to remove it, bringing it off the discovery that he had not intended to stumble upon like this. Fingers wriggling reflexively, he slipped them free to find a shoulder, and latched on there as he regained control over his voice.

"… What happened to you?" he finally managed to ask. "Was it the war?"

"_Of course it was,_" Leon seemed to snap back, even with his lilt in place. "_What doesn't the war do to people?_"

"… You lost more than your legs," Cloud recalled suddenly, "You lost your faith itself. These cases are related, aren't they?"

"_I didn't lose them as a kid like you lost your sight,_" Leon explained. "_What happened to me was my own fault._"

"Tell me," the blond requested sincerely, earning a scoff in return.

"_Why?_"

"You have to tell somebody, don't you?"

"… _It's a long story,_" the harsh whisper echoed in the air that was thick with tension. Cloud did not back down.

"I'm not going anywhere."

There was another pause. He could picture the other blinking, could feel the heavy stare on him. And then he heard the soft whistling as the other man surrendered.

"_I suppose not…_" He finally agreed._ "And where should I begin?_"

"Begin at the beginning," Cloud replied in turn, vaguely noting he was quoting something without remembering where it came from, "and go on until you come to the end: then stop."

* * *

The cold nights that came after were filled with that story, then – one unlike the stories of before, that was no longer made in jest or as a red herring. Here were truths, the history behind the man that had played so many tunes in the wind. And no longer was the story humorous or silly. Some of the events still seemed a little outrageous, but all were somber and bitter.

Leon's true name – the name he once carried with pride – was Squall Leonhart, and he had been something akin to a prodigy in the mercenary guild during the war. All those battles had filled his pockets, for there was always someone in need of his prowess in combat.

"_You probably would have hated him,_" Leon mused aloud, starting what would be a long insistence to refer to his past self as a different person.

"You don't know that."

"_You suffered because of war. He lived it up, even got rich because the war kept him in business. He always had more than he needed to get by. He had comrades he could trust in within the mercenary guild, if not barely. But then he screwed up. All it took him was one stupid mistake, and that was what ruined everything…_"

Cloud did not ask, he knew the other would answer on his own. It was part of the story, after all. And sure enough…

"_Mercenaries work for their coin and their coin alone. Loyalty goes only as far as the pay they are given…_" he paused, a soft creak meant he was leaning forward. "_The kid forgot that detail…_"

Squall Leonhart, the strong and proud mercenary who had borne himself beyond the promise of his young age, turned out to still be a child with childish impulses. That much proved certain when he grew fond of a lord from a minor house. Though the man had little standing in court, he was a charismatic leader, impressive enough to be promoted to General, and he was in constant need of manpower to further his cause. This lord had been frequently employing his services for a while, and the youth that was Squall saw him as a fatherly figure who treated him kindly.

"_That was his own failing. The stupid teenager that he was mistook kindness for kinship. He thought he could consider the old man to be a family or something, so he decided to make it official. Just like that, he forgot the important rule he stood by and swore allegiance to that lord…_"

His reward had been an office, and his own band of troops to aid him in his charge. He was welcomed into the General's home, in a staggering show of trust, and was shown the office where he would meet with his new master for business. He had met his lord's daughter, a raven-haired beauty that was just a little younger than him. As he had concerned himself with the lord as a father he never had, he came to love the girl as well.

Even as his past comrades from the guild either continued to remain as his allies or move on to become his enemies, always where they were paid to be, he stayed where he was, fighting for the General while looking out for the General's daughter. For a moment, he thought he had done something right. For a moment, Squall Leonhart thought he did, indeed, have a family to come home to.

It all ended with a painful shatter, in a turn of events that he should have expected, but failed to.

"_The General was supposed to defend this stronghold, keep the enemy at bay just long enough for help to arrive. And Squall was right there at his order, leading his troops to hold the line no matter the grief it entailed. They were suffering so many losses, and there was barely more than that kid and his squad. The backup was practically nonexistent. As for the lord…_"

The lord betrayed every last one of them.

Cloud startled, turning his head in Leon's direction when the man paused in his story. "He defected?"

"_I can't say for sure,_" Leon admitted, his voice sounding strained as his hand scratched against coarse cloth over skin. "_It wasn't like he died or something, neither his men nor his enemies could find a body. He couldn't have been captured either, or there would have been either a ransom demand or a public humiliation._"

No, all that had happened, was that the leader Squall gave his trust to just _vanished_. Whether he had willfully abandoned his followers, or something else had occurred, no one knew. And without their leader to direct them forward, what little hope left was dashed to the ground.

"_There wasn't any other choice but to keep fighting,_" Leon continued solemnly. "_There was nowhere to run, and help never arrived. The soldiers stopped caring if they could protect the stronghold at all – all they wanted to do was live through it. All that kid wanted was to make it back to the General's manor, if only to make sure the girl was alright._"

It had been a struggle like none other, but it had been for naught. The last thing he remembered of that day was being caught in a blast that erupted right at his feet, even as he was shouting for his dwindling troops to take cover. What became of those men, he never found out. He still did not know, now.

The story was cut short again with a harsh curse, and Cloud looked about him in confusion at the sudden low growling that was coming from his companion. Without any certainty of the situation, he called out, "What's going on?"

"… _It's nothing,_" Leon finally uttered back, his voice choked with pain. There was a creaking of cloth as an unseen hand squeezed something. "_They just hate this story as much as I do._"

At a second, more controlled oath, Cloud realized the other meant his legs. Phantom pain.

"_They remember…_" he hissed quietly, keeping his voice as level as possible, "_... they remember how much of hell it hurt…_"

* * *

_He could not tell if he was still unconscious or awake. He could not differentiate a nightmare from reality anymore, through the haze that engulfed him, suffocating him slowly. There was only one constant throughout everything: Pain. So much pain. Searing hot pokers had been stabbed into his knees, driving upward into his body, burning the very life out of him. All of it hurt so much, he was not even sure if he was screaming anymore, or if his desperate struggling against that pain was physical._

_Someone was holding him down, saying words he could not decipher in his current state. When another, more delicate pair of palms pressed against his temples and held his head in place, he wondered if he was crying yet. He was not sure where exactly the streaks of warm wetness was coming from, but he did notice he was starting to weaken. Was he finally dying?_

_Fighting a losing battle against the hold was suddenly harder, his body feeling heavier as he finally sank back down. Perhaps he was dying. At least he was starting to hurt less… starting to not hurt altogether… There was something like cotton in his brain, coaxing him to just relax, and let the exhaustion take its toll on him._

_He fell asleep with the hands still cradling his head, with words he still could not understand soothing him._

_When he awoke, a different hand was on his head, buried deep in his hair. He felt it first before he even opened his eyes to see who it was._

"… _Fury…?" he managed hoarsely._

"_He can't mean the missing General, can he?" the voice over his head said aloud, unaware of his patient's consciousness, "Didn't expect to find one of that guy's boys to still be alive after all that…"_

"_Honey…" a different voice – a lady's voice – sounded from somewhere to his right, and this time he did open his eyes. Or, at least, he cracked them open just enough to see out through the glaring light surrounding him._

_It was not his lord hovering above him like that, but a younger man, perhaps just a little older than his self. He was smiling kindly, and his hand was still ruffling his hair as though he were a sleepy child._

"_We nearly lost you there. How are you feeling?"_

_He opened his mouth to say something, but then he was choking on his breath as the events prior flashed through his mind. He remembered a distinctly important detail, and he started to rise only to have the man push him back down again._

"_Don't move, buddy. I know what you're looking for, but you don't want to see it just yet."_

_His hand came up to meet the one at his chest. He was squeezing it, begging for some answers. After a long moment of pause, the man answered him._

"_We couldn't save them, soldier," he was apologizing. "They were already gone when we brought you in. We thought you could at least keep your knees, but with all the debris…"_

"Leon."

The flashback ended suddenly, leaving the man disorientated. He looked down to find himself clutching at the knots of cloth just above the stumps he would never get used to seeing. But they had stopped hurting as much, now bare throbs of empathy for the memories he just relived.

"Are you okay?"

He returned his attention to the blind beggar across from him. Even with the blindfold secured back in place, he was probably so used to not seeing his own face to not realize how every expression he wore was easily readable. Now, Leon could see how worried Cloud was.

"_I'm fine,_" he answered at last, barely remembering to slide his "voice" back into place. "_Where was I?_"

"You don't have to."

"_You wanted to hear it._"

"I take it back."

"_Too late. So where was I?_"

Cloud backed down. "Your life was spared, but you lost your legs."

"_It was the price Squall paid for forgetting what he was, for actually believing what he wasn't…_" Leon went back to referring to his past self in third person. He took a deep breath, steadying himself, before he continued where he left off. "_The volunteers at the safehouse were kind to the crippled kid, though. Saints, the both of them. The kid was a lousy patient, too concerned with the war to care about his own recovery. He was always asking for updates, or at least what happened to his comrades. Not one question was given a decent answer, though._"

While he was still in the safehouse, he had only one visitor: the Deputy Xehanort. Xehanort had claimed to be Ansem himself – and many in that backwater refuge had believed him – and commended Squall for his actions in the war. He then offered substantial compensation for the loss, but all that came to a drastic halt when Squall grudgingly admitted that he was not a registered citizen, but a foreign mercenary.

"_I didn't realize how bad my situation was,_" Leon related. "_Foreigners and citizens just don't get the same privileges. I suppose I was counting on my allegiance to the General to help me with the issue, but with him gone, I was on my own. I just had no idea how much…_"

But Xehanort had quickly promised him – _assured_ him, even – that he would still be fairly rewarded for all that he had done and all that he had sacrificed. And with nothing else to go on, Squall had chosen to believe him.

"… He was lying," Cloud guessed morosely. "You were betrayed not once, but twice, and both people were from the same side. So that was what happened…"

Leon didn't deny it. He only kept telling his story.

Squall was still in the safehouse when the war was at last declared over, all the wounded soldiers beside him sent home long ago. Xehanort's promise of aid never came, and when the safehouse was to be shut down, no one knew what to do with him. He had no known family in the land, and since he left the guild for the General's service, there was no place to drop him off. They were mercenaries, after all, not a charity service.

"_That particular couple who was with him when he first woke up, they actually offered to take the kid in,_" Leon admitted, "_and he nearly did go with them._"

"But you didn't."

"_Squall Leonhart couldn't fight anymore. What good was a cripple aside from being a burden?_" Leon was ranting a little now, so very bitter now. "_It was only a matter of time before any welcome got worn out, and if anything, he was too tired for anymore disappointments that did not seem to end in this life._"

What he did accept, eventually, was the temporary pass they obtained for him to enter Twilight Town. And so he had been in this town ever since, each day as much a struggle to live as the last.

He had lost contact with the couple when they returned to their own homes, and eventually was brought down to his last coppers. He had to sell the wheelchair they gave him, resigning himself instead to a discarded, worn out wagon that he could propel forward by pushing against the ground – thus explaining the strange sounds Cloud had heard in their first meeting. The bare things he refused to part with were the wind instruments that several kinder soldiers had freely left to him, to give him some cheer in his wait, and now they helped him survive.

He had fallen so far from his proud life, and was ashamed to even refer to himself as the same mercenary who had been so thoughtless and foolhardy in those days of before. Squall Leonhart had made that one tragic mistake that landed him here, and he could not associate himself with that name anymore. That was why he changed it, and became Leon – no titles, no fancy last names, just another beggar in these streets that lived off someone else's charity.

Just like that, he was at last done with his tale.

And Cloud found that he had nothing to say. In the end, the blind man could only remain where he sat with the tools of his trade, lost in his silence. At least, now he knew. He knew everything… and he knew as well that Leon had been right in his words: ignorance had been his bliss. He did not know if he felt better with all the knowledge he shouldered now.

At last, he heard the soft clinking again as Leon rolled his tongue carefully over his "voice", and then there was more silence. Somehow, despite not seeing it, Cloud could understand what had to be going through the other man's head.

The familiar rubber mewling on the ground caught his attention. He turned at once.

"Where do you think you're going?" At his question, the mewling stopped. When Leon spoke again, he sounded further away than usual.

"_I don't know… perhaps someplace where no one knows me._" Despite the persisting hoarse lilt, there was a dark bitter taste to the words spoken. "_This history of mine… is embarrassing. Things can't be the same between us._"

"And I never expected them to be," Cloud answered softly. "But that doesn't mean we can't try for the future."

There was the hoarse chortle, and then the voice was clearer in retort: "_What future? More lunacy in the streets for a few coins to share out? More heart-to-hearts that only lead to trouble? It's better to fold while I still have some dignity left._"

"We're beggars. Dignity is not our luxury," that counter brought pause to the man who attempted escape, and Cloud continued, "but we've got something here, and damn you if you end it now."

"_What we've got is bad luck and paying for it in the lowest way possible,_" Leon countered. "_What do you want to hold onto that for?_"

"We have more than that," Cloud argued. "We have an understanding. We both know what loss feels like."

_We can't cure each other of our ailments, but misery loves company._

They were on the same page now. There was a long, torturous silence as Leon thought about it and Cloud wondered what was on his mind this time.

The mewling of rubber was back, but it wasn't getting softer with distance. Instead, it got more distinct, getting closer than was necessary for Leon to return to his usual spot. It got closer still, and by the time it stopped, he expected the warmth of a hand over his knee before he felt it land.

At last, Leon chortled – a faint whistling wheeze in the air – as he mused aloud: "_… Will Judy miss Punch that much?_"

With an irritated growl, Cloud swiped at the top of Leon's hair – missing anyway –, "Don't call me 'Judy', you prick."

Leon was whistling more easily, but he did not retreat at once. His hand remained over Cloud's knee, squeezing just a little in silent conveyance of gratitude. The tension fell away to something warmer, more friendly.

Neither discussed Leon's attempt at moving on again.


	2. Chapter 2

_When I divided these chapters, I was considering two things. One was the progress of time, and the focus of each segment that would have otherwise been a little messy and disorientating for a full-length one-shot. The other was exactly how much change was going in, whether or not this would become an entirely different story._

_I leave it to you to decide which it is. With one more chapter to think about, there's something to keep me still very much awake until the morning.  
_

* * *

The days that followed had been like treading through broken glass for the both of them, but they eventually relaxed once more. They continued to perform – both individually as much as together – and it became a comfortable constant to share everything they earned now, not just what they got from their combined skits.

Then one day, Cloud was curious to try something, and voiced so indirectly: "Does your wagon have a handle?"

If Leon caught on, he did not reveal so in his reply. "_There's this long bar in the back that came with the box, and I couldn't get rid of it… Why?_"

"Would it support your weight if I pushed against it?"

"… _Just what do you have in mind?_"

Cloud chose not to give his verbal answer this time, as he crossed the distance between them once more and reached out, his hand sweeping in careful arcs until he touched something cold and metallic. A pole – the handle. He took hold of it, sliding his hand along the thin circumference until he at last found where it ended in an inverted trapezoid with a horizontal bar for gripping. Realizing exactly how familiar it felt in his hands, he couldn't help but comment on it.

"Was this a kid's wagon?"

"_Are you implying something with that idea?_"

Deciding against baiting the man further, Cloud tested the handle. It was rough to the touch with rust, and its hinge was incredibly stiff, creaking each time he attempted to change its angle. But what was important was that it held. Finally, certain it wouldn't jerk forward or backward unless he applied just the right amount of pressure at the right spot, he decided to try it out. An experimental tug – followed by a startled protest from below – was the only confirmation he needed.

"_Hey! You let go of that!_" came the pitched cry as Cloud tugged again to be rewarded with the mewling sound of the rubber wheels against the pavement. Still was the wagon's driver – now the helpless passenger – demanding: "_Cut it out!_"

Ignoring his protests, Cloud grinned with elation and refused to leave go of his new prize while he commented, "For a minute there, I thought I'd be stuck with pulling you backwards everywhere. This is better than I thought."

"_What are you up to?_" Leon asked again, especially wary with his only tether in the other man's grasp.

"You lead," the blond answered simply, "and I push."

There was a distinct pause, and then, "_... oh, hell no…_"

"Come on, haven't you wanted to try this before?" the blind man retorted in good humor, but he did stop pulling for the moment.

"_With you steering?_" the other scoffed. "_No offense, but I'd rather stay put, thanks_."

Cloud continued to persuade: "Think about it: My mobility, your sight, and all the _places_ we could go…"

"_I don't like this…_" Leon insisted, though he sounded less forceful now. Cloud played another card.

"We could keep switching places to perform at. Think of the money we could make at other locations."

That did it. Though he continued to grumble, it was obvious that Leon was finally buying into the idea. He didn't protest when Cloud tugged at the wagon's handle again, giving him more room to stand behind the wagon. Neither did he voice any more objection when Cloud turned to get his position right, one hand on the bar and the other pressed against the wall.

"_This… will __not__ bode well,_" Leon declared cynically. Cloud could just imagine the poor guy gripping the worn sides of his wagon for dear life.

It was at the first sign of propelled movement that the conflict started with a ruckus. Unprepared for exactly how much friction he would deal with, Cloud put his full weight against the bar and practically shoved the wagon forward. Leon uttered a very colorful expletive in his comically lilting voice when he nearly flipped over onto the pavement. Ignoring a particularly nasty comment, Cloud grabbed the bar and pulled backward. Again with too much force, when this time the wagon smacked him in the shins painfully.

The ensuing chaos afterward was neither man's fault, truthfully. It was just that both had their own ideas on how to move. Cloud found himself frustrated over trusting someone else to gauge his steps, and Leon felt ready to have a heart attack at the careless jolts and jerks that could so easily tip him right out of his seat. What had seemed so workable in theory only moments ago was suddenly crumbling in the face of reality.

A few curious passersby had halted their steps to watch the confusing mess, but most hurried along once more when either man fired off more choice words that the innocent wide-eyed children should not hear under any circumstance. One or two youths did pause long enough to take pictures of the spectacle before moving on. Nothing otherwise seemed to progress out of the futile endeavor.

Decidedly fed up with it all, Leon reached behind him, seized the pole and jerked it out of Cloud's startled grasp with a final loud bark of "_Just get your damned hands off me!_"

Cloud blinked, suddenly disorientated, and sought purchase by the wall beside him again. Leon's free hand was defensively fisted at his side as he continued to hold on tightly to the bar sticking out the back of the wagon. For a moment, both were silent and unmoving, neither sure of what to do about the situation. Eventually it was Leon that moved first, as he finally pried his fingers off the bar, put his hands to the pavement and negotiated himself back against the wall while muttering in further complaint.

"_I am __not__ doing that again._"

* * *

Neither did bother to try again, no matter how tempting it had seemed to be at first. It was the least of concerns on their minds, as time gave them plenty of other things to worry about. The routine vacation periods were ending, meaning that the adolescents were suddenly a little less free with their money and a little more occupied with school. Similarly, the commuters seemed more bothered and rushed than usual now that they had more competition for the same space.

And like salt to a wound, the weather was changing again. While Twilight Town did not experience the four seasons, the region still had its occasions of heavy rain. No matter how sheltered their current spot was, Cloud and Leon were still easily soaked by the pelting of icy cold water borne by heavy wind blowing in their faces. It was several long torturous weeks of such bad weather that both had to ride out, and by the time they got through it, both were constantly shivering from their soaked garments – the only clothes that either owned, or they would have gladly removed them.

"_Bloody rain,_" Leon grumbled under his breath, still using the liberally abused "voice" of his despite how much harder it seemed for him to project it. Understanding the need to gripe, Cloud left him alone, his fingers busy wiping a damp rag up and down his banjo in a futile effort to get the instrument dry for just a few minutes. Leon seemed quieter than usual despite his complaints and occasional mutters about the persistent cold, and only those two words were uttered this time before he went straight to playing.

But it was a strangled halt to the pan pipes' faltering notes that alerted Cloud of the ominous change in his companion's welfare. He heard a throaty cough, followed almost predictably by the wet, plopping sound of Leon's "voice" hitting an unseen hand with more force and less subtlety than usual, hinting that this time it wasn't deliberate. The coughs continued for a while, and then there was a soft wheezing that would have escaped less sensitive ears.

"Hey," he called, turning his head to better catch any reply sent his way. "You alright?"

"_I'll be fine._" There was another wheeze, and then a second plop followed by a "clink" before Leon answered – his voice more raspy than usual: "_Just feeling the weather, that's all._"

"And that weather is only going to get worse," was Cloud's reply. The other man barely suppressed a second coughing fit, and he frowned. "I don't like the sound I'm hearing."

"_Then don't listen to it,_" Leon fired back irritably, the effect lost by the hoarseness in his voice.

"You need a doctor," the blond insisted.

The conversation was interrupted once again by another round of coughing that wasn't controlled in time. Cloud listened to a deep, struggling breath, then the stubborn replacement of the object in Leon's mouth, and finally, in surrender:

"… _And do you know where to find one?_"

"No," Cloud had to admit lamely, before pressing, "Do _you_?"

"… _I know a church,_" was the eventual answer. "_Every time I got desperate, I would go there… they practice charity._"

"Then let's go there now."

"_I'm too spent to get there on my own._"

"You don't have to," Cloud declared. "I'm going with you."

His still-empty pan and banjo returned to his person as he rose, and he stepped forward once more, one hand stretched before him, as he made his way to where he remembered the wagon's handle being. He did not find it right away, but a careful sweep soon brought the cylinder to his palm. It was slick with moisture and freezing to the touch, encouraging him to gain a better grip on its slippery surface.

"_Please don't do that again-_" Leon's tired plea was cut off at once as a determined hand wrapped tightly around the bar.

"I don't see any other choice. If we want to get you some help, then we _have_ to make this work." The hand tightened as he reinforced his statement: "… The longer we wait, the closer you get to collapsing. I can't do anything for you then. You understand that, don't you?"

He had to wait for Leon to finish more coughing – the wet, throaty sounds a lot worse than the times before – before he could give an answer through his replaced mouth piece. Still, the man paused, taking several long breaths to the best of his ability as he weighed out his options. Then, he relented begrudgingly.

"_You'll only move as I tell you… and __exactly__ as I tell you,_" He listed as his conditions."_No funny business… no ideas… Think you can handle that?_"

Cloud smirked, glad for the cooperation as he answered in his own way, "Well, I'll have to, won't I?"

For a moment, nothing else was said, and Cloud heard the scraping of metal that had to be Leon recovering his own pan from the ground.

"_Don't push with all your might. Half-strength is enough,_" came the instructions then. "_Take three steps forward and turn left._"

And when Cloud pushed off this time, the wagon rolled easily in front of him. At the left turn, he barely remembered to compensate for the slipper pavement that eliminated a little too much friction below the wheels, causing a minor stumble and a weary groan from his passenger. But that seemed about the worst of their current troubles and a sure sign of improvement from their last failed attempt.

"Okay," the blond spoke, hoping his voice still carried through the louder rain that was soaking them both. "Which way now?"

"_Forward,_" Leon rasped between coughs, the sound he uttered no longer distinguishable for whether or not his "voice" was in use. "_Keep forward… until I say…_"

With a murmur of understanding, Cloud pushed against the handle once more, the wagon rolling ahead of him through the noisy streams of water rushing for open drains. Despite the poor state of his guide and his own impaired judgment, they were making good progress. The going was as smooth as he imagined it to be, albeit a minor stumble here and there from obstacles neither noticed appear before actually feeling the bump.

It was a fortunate thing that Leon managed to keep both consciousness and coherence barely long enough for them to reach the front steps of the church. They were even luckier that the local reverend had chosen to stay inside and wait out the rain instead of leaving half an hour ago. Even as the priest carefully recited words of gratitude to his Lord, he tried to direct Cloud after him with gestures. It was only when the other man did not follow that he paused long enough to realize and apologize for his error, and then verbally guide them in.

True to Leon's word, the reverend proved to be a hospitable man, quick to direct Cloud to one of the benches in a warmer part of the church. By the time the blond lifted Leon out of his wagon and set him on the long wooden surface, the reverend was already providing towels – old but still reasonably clean from the smell of them – while urging him to remove his wet shirt and jacket. He insisted Cloud sit down as well and dry off, assuring him that his ill friend would be well cared for.

Half expecting to receive lessons about religion, Cloud found instead that he was pretty much left alone to dry and warm his shivering body. The priest, being the only one with them, seemed to have his hands full with attending to whatever ailed Leon, and then giving up and calling in professional medical help. It was still a little awkward to receive such staggering charity when the reverend insisted on covering the doctor's bill, and the blond would have willingly put up with whatever message was pushed on him at this point.

Still the priest left them be, his only involvement in offering them what little there was at the moment from the cabinet and charity bins. Alone with his companion in a place he did not know, wrapped in an old blanket that smelled of packing foam and mothballs, Cloud instinctively sought out the one source of familiarity in the place. With Leon's still-freezing fingers limp in his gentle hold and still-wheezing breaths like tiny whispers in his ear, it was an oddly comforting sensation that he needed to maintain the calm.

Cloud continued to hold onto the hand he had captured, hoping that what warmth he had could be shared between them. He stopped counting off the hours, stopped keeping an ear open for the reverend's movements. He went as far as to stop paying attention to the pattering of rainfall over the church's roof. He continued to listen to the slowly evening breaths, finding some relief in the knowledge that he had not lost his friend just yet. The chilled hand in his heated clutch curled a little in a weakened attempt to squeeze back.

"_Cloud…_" the voice that was still too hoarse for liking whispered, "… _thanks._"

"Just shut up and go to sleep," Cloud muttered back, feeling fatigue creeping up on him as well after the long day of apprehension. "At least we know it works."

There was a rough exhalation of air – a failed attempt to whistle, he gathered – before Leon asked a different question: "_Where would you… like to go next?_"

"Didn't I tell you to sleep?" Cloud grumbled, already slumping forward to lean against the wooden surface before him, regardless of what it was. "We can discuss that later."

He did not know at what point he had let go of Leon's hand, but he blinked slowly as he registered it threading through his still damp locks. He realized a little too late that he was actually leaning on the bench with the other man's thigh just bare inches from his nose. He supposed he was too tired to truly care.

Neither heard the reverend come back with some used clothes in hand, for by that point in time they had both drifted off into a deep, needed slumber.

* * *

For the rest of the rainy season, neither man thought to stray far from their new shelter. Despite Leon's lack of attendance, Reverend Luxord – as he finally introduced himself – remembered the man with some fondness, and refused to let either of them escape the holy house until he was certain neither would come back in a worse condition within the same month. The revelation that their host was also a not-quite reformed gambler meant that several of the droller hours were spent playing cards – Cloud would do the handwork while Leon peered up at the cards from his reclined position and directed him on which to lay down.

That, however, was not the true reason that they stayed as long as they did. The doctor had insisted that Leon's instruments – and yes, it included the "voice" – had to be cleaned thoroughly to remove bacteria and prevent a second infection. As an afterthought, his wagon was carried away as well for maintenance of its own. Already exhausted from fighting bouts of fever, Leon had been particularly upset over the loss of his favored toys, leaving him all the more moody and silent through the time it took for his body to recover. Without his mobility and the tools of his trade, he had no reason to go anywhere, much less outside to panhandle.

Eventually, he healed. From the first second that he reclaimed his "voice" and popped it straight into his mouth, his first words in days were to protest any further attempts of Cloud "manhandling" him – he could move himself, thank you very much. Both blonds in his company teased that he hated the idea of being hauled around like a baby, to which he retorted by throwing cards at their heads. By the time he demonstrated his regained strength by dropping back into his wagon unaided, it was apparent that he was back to his old self.

It was time to keep moving.

After the successful movement that had brought the aid Leon needed to recover, both had to agree that their teamwork had indeed been quite useful in getting around. So much so, apparently, that neither was about to show any consideration for staying in the original location that they had resigned themselves to for so long. In the last days they remained with Luxord's hospitality, they devoted much of their time to practicing within the immediate vicinity, until they were able to at last coordinate with no further trouble.

At first Leon remained adamant over his former independence, and on occasion reverted back to his old tactics of just tackling the ground again and pulling the blind man after him. But he learned, he understood his friend's equal need for some control, for some awareness in their location and circumstances. That was when he stopped fighting it and started sitting back, guiding Cloud's steps, describing everything he saw, with his words.

Indeed, as Cloud had so imagined it, all the _places_ that they went:

They passed restaurants with their heavenly scents of different dishes, both savory and sweet, and the murmurs of contentment that food brought to the diners. They passed parks that were scented by the morning smell of fresh leaves and grass, the air filled with the sounds of children engaging in loud and noisy play while adults sat and chatted. They passed busy sidewalks that, while unpleasant with smoke and tar, were punctuated by the impatient horns and rumbles of vehicles driving by.

He heard all of it, and Leon learned with each new day to describe everything to the fullest of details. It was quite the experience for both, and a change they came to embrace.

Like this, they started to locate new spots to perform from, instead of waiting out "the quiet" as they used to. There were always people moving around, and so there were always those who could spare some change for the performing duo. And as they started to identify familiar voices in the crowd, they found their "regulars", and among those regulars they found friends.

When they eventually settled again just a ten-minute stroll off from a bar – a popular one, judging by its strong smell of spirits even from where they were – their new friends came to visit almost every other day. Sometimes they came altogether as one large group, and sometimes they came in smaller groups. Most of the time, they came alone.

There were a pair of fraternal twins, calling themselves Sora and Roxas. Though they claimed to be in their teens, one seemed to carry all the maturity that the other didn't. Roxas was quiet and polite, always doing his best to speak with both men without offending either. Sora was a lot more lively and playful, filling any silence with his inane chatter. That boy had laughed aloud when Cloud curiously tried to compare the shape of the twins' faces once, complaining that it tickled – it was an honest, pure innocence that the boy had, and the blond couldn't help but take to him after that.

Then there was Demyx, a basking musician they met at the entrance to the underground subway at some point. He claimed to be a college graduate pursuing a degree in the music industry, and played in the streets not for money but simply for practice. He too had a string instrument, except his was a sitar and he tended to open his act by spraying a bottleful of tap water through the air with an excited cry of "Dance, water! Dance!" So long as he didn't accidentally splash them in the process, they learned to tolerate him.

There was also Riku, one of the adolescent twins' peers that Sora had dragged with him to see them once. He was older than them, though not by much, just enough that he was able to work part-time at the bar not too far off. Traces of alcohol always hung about his clothes and hair from exposure to the beverages he served, but there was never enough to imply the boy helped himself to them. He was mature for his age, acting more like a guardian than a buddy to his younger and more innocent friend. Leon seemed to like him at once, if their amiable chats meant anything.

And of course, there was the bartender.

She never introduced herself, but Cloud always knew when she showed up. Even without Leon there to tell him afterward, he could just feel her presence join the gathered crowd and then slip away as it dispersed. She never stayed long enough to leave a coin, but she did much better than that – Riku started to bring packed lunches with him every time he visited during his breaks, not under his paycheck but by the kind lady's treat.

Impressed and grateful, they then asked to meet her. Some time was needed to arrange a proper appointment, but soon they reached a mutual agreement that the meeting would take place in the park, where they could talk without too many interruptions.

So is this a date? Her message questioned playfully.

Maybe, they related back.

You bring the entertainment, she joked, and I'll bring the food.

* * *

"_And there went Punch, hopping and jumping! The angry crocodile was after him, snapping here and there, but the hero hopped over his snout each time to land on his head…_"

Cloud smiled softly as he heard Leon tell his folk tale to their attentive audience, his fingers busy strumming a tune as accompaniment. He imagined the man was using his hands, fingers dancing and shaping as visuals that were not realistic but highly humorous nonetheless.

Before them, the children loved it. They giggled appreciatively from a short distance, their concerned parents unwilling to let them closer to the two strange, filthy beggars by the bench but unable to keep them completely away. Neither man expected any profit out of this, but it passed the time while they waited for the third member of their gathering.

Then, with a slam of notes, Cloud heralded the triumphant end to the battle, however it had been done.

"_Huzzah, huzzah! The beast is no more!_" "Punch" cried out jovially. "_Hi now! Hey now! That's the way to do it!_"

The little ones cheered, satisfied to see the "hero" win and at last willing to let their bothered guardians pull them away from the strangers and toward the playground. The banjo was lowered back to rest comfortably across Cloud's lap, just as Leon's knuckles tapped playfully at his knee.

"_Here she is._"

No sooner were the words uttered when Cloud raised his head and recognized at once the approaching figure. In the clearer air, he could make out the scent of fancy drinks and a classy, peppermint-scented air freshener that probably came from the bar. There was the faintest trace of shampoo somewhere in the mix as well, but otherwise nothing that smelled of perfume. Masking those scents by a bit was the muted aroma of hot bread and sauce, of oil starting to seep through thin layers of packaging.

She reached the bench where they were, and for the first time he heard her voice: it was soft and light, like a musical note to his sensitive ears.

"Hi," she greeted warmly. "My name's Tifa."

Cloud raised his right hand to the air, waiting patiently. She took the cue to clasp it in a firm handshake. He noticed how small that hand seemed, yet he could not deny the underlying strength he could feel from her hold.

"I'm Cloud," he introduced himself in turn. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

"The pleasure's all mine," she replied. Their handshake ended, and he sensed her turn to the remaining member of their group. "And you are…?"

"_Leon,_" the man answered amiably. Cloud could only assume they shook hands as well, then he heard a three light thumps on the empty space next to him on the bench. "_Hop on._"

The wood creaked subtly in his ear as she accepted the offer, close enough for Cloud to feel the gentle warmth that radiated from her being. The packets were passed around, and he opened his carefully to uncover what his nose described to be a mix of bacon and scrambled eggs wrapped in a tortilla, still fresh and piping hot. A cold metal can was pressed into his other hand, just as some proper conversation started.

And as they sat together – Cloud and Tifa on the bench and Leon's wagon just in front of their feet – they talked over the shared meal. Tifa, at first, asked Leon about the voice he was using, curious to know if it was a prosthetic or something else behind the obvious pretense. Probably having anticipated such a question, Leon had not started to eat yet, and was more than happy to show her his secret.

All Cloud heard was the wet plopping sound that was Leon removing his "voice", and suddenly Tifa was laughing aloud – tickled by whatever that object was – just as Leon whistled once and tucked it out of the way. It was a little irksome to not understand what had happened, but the moment passed swiftly as they went on to other topics. Tifa proved to be an interesting conversationalist, and she always had another story about an interesting experience with her wide variety of customers. Until the one tale about a particularly rude obese man, Cloud didn't even know nacho sauce could be used _that_ way.

The conversation was briefly interrupted when Cloud noticed the scratching of old denim had been persisting for a while now, now and then punctuated by the softest of hisses as Leon sucked air between his teeth. His foot moved, bumping against the bottom of the wagon, hoping to let Leon know he understood without raising too much notice. But Tifa noticed anyway.

"… Was it something I said?"

"It's not that," Cloud found himself explaining, now more free to actually reach forward and stretch his hand out until he found Leon's shoulder. "He gets phantom pain. It usually comes and goes like this."

There was the briefest of pauses, before Tifa replied softly, "I didn't realize."

"He hides it well." He heard the man's sigh of relief at last, and he squeezed the shoulder once before drawing away again. To his side, there was a thoughtful hum before the lady spoke again.

"One of my friends down at the bar might be able to help," she explained. "If that's alright with you, I can have a word her, let her take a look at it."

Both men paused, surprised by the offer. Finally, Leon swallowed carefully, cleaning the insides of his mouth as he dug in his pocket. Finally, he found his "voice" and popped it back into place so he could answer on his own this time.

"_I would like that._"

"Great! I'll introduce you to Aerith as soon as I can." And the conversation went on from there, no less tense or awkward than before.

Their lunch sessions continued just like this, where they would meet at the park – giving them a break from their routine and Tifa her need for some fresh air – and proceed to whittle the hours away in idle chatter. Sometimes, Riku would join them, and yet other times it would be the twins – for both cases, they moved from the usual bench to a clearing, sitting on the grass with jackets and coats spread under them. On some occasions, Demyx himself would participate in their activities, and when he brought his sitar, all three musicians would gladly take a moment to play together.

True to her word, Tifa invited her friend Aerith to join them during one such session. After hearing them out, she seemed more than happy to oblige. The only downside, though, was that there was not enough space in the back room of the bar to fit more than just the two of them. Still reluctant but willing to try anything that might work, Leon trusted his blind companion's welfare to the bartender before allowing Aerith to lead the way.

That and many sessions afterward started the times that Cloud found himself alone with Tifa, the two of them side by side on the bench while waiting for the other pair's return later in the evening. They filled the space, passing the time, with more talk about events that came to past. When even politics and the weather ran dry of chat material, they finally dropped the rest of their pretenses. One not judging the other, both deeming one another a good enough friend to confess things to, they opened up.

That was when the more honest talking started between them. Despite the initial awkwardness, Cloud found that Tifa was genuinely curious about his life – not just what had caused his blindness – and was honestly interested in the little details as he slowly related his past experiences to her. Her own life was nothing dull either, no matter what she claimed. He had a fondness to hear about her hometown – a spitting image of his own – and her training sessions to become the superior hand-to-hand combatant that she was.

Somehow, like that, they became close. And somehow, as the talks went on with the passage of time… he started to feel something beyond that. It was hard not to, with someone like her.

At least, not to him.

* * *

"You two are pretty tight, huh?"

He tilted his head curiously, before asking aloud, "What do you mean?"

"You and Leon," she clarified. "Always looking out for each other like this. You're like close family… are you?" When he shook his head, she laughed. "Could have fooled me. You must have known each other since forever."

"To be honest," Cloud replied, "I don't think I've known him for more than a year. He just showed up one day and refused to leave. Like a stray cat dumped in my lap."

"What about now?" She probed. "How do you feel about him _now_?"

He paused, his fingers restlessly scratching at the fabric of his worn jeans. Every time he thought he had his answer, he dismissed it before he could say anything. No matter how short a time it seemed in theory, time just passed differently for each class of people. And for his class, living through one day on the street was a feat in itself. There were no holidays, no schedules, no special occasions. There were only good days, bad days, and nights. Terms like weeks, months and years held little difference – everything seemed an eternity of the same fight to live.

That was his life, but that was also Leon's life. At some point, they had come together, depending on one another to make that time seem a little shorter, the fight a little easier, and the air a little clearer. They gave each other comfort, security, a sense of purpose. Between them was a tiny glimpse of hope for something more in their lives. How would you describe someone like that with a simple sentence, where you could truly mean it and sell no one short?

"… I'm not sure how to…" his confession trailed off uncertainly. Giving up, he requested instead, "Can I get back to you on that?"

Her warm hand was on his, squeezing lightly. "Of course. Take all the time you need."

He turned his palm over, catching her thumb lightly. It felt strange, having her palm envelope his like this, and he continued to idly play with the digit in his hold. His thumb was lightly stroking the skin above a joint, and he wondered for a brief second what she looked like – not just to him in his dark world, but to eyes that could truly see. What color were those large eyes? Was her skin tan or fair? Was the light catching off her hair in a certain way? Was she smiling? Was it sincere?

With a deep sigh, he reached once more to his face. His fingers found the cloth knot before tugging it loose and allowing the cover to slip away. As he opened his eyes, he heard a soft, appreciative sound. Remembering Leon's initial reaction, he smiled – it seemed the man had been right about his once plain orbs. But the amused smile fell away as he remembered that once, even when they were plain, those orbs had actually been useful to him.

"I miss them," he admitted dully. "Colors, shades… light itself. I miss all of them."

The hand over his flexed a little, but it did not pull away. Instead, he felt her lean in a little closer, and then the wrinkled folds of his sleeve flattened as her arm pressed against them.

"You know, there's a pretty good view of the park from where we are," she mentioned carefully. Then she hesitated, before, "I'm not very good at this, but… can I… describe it to you?"

His grip on her thumb unconsciously tightened. Just a little.

"Please."

She was still hesitating, unsure of how to begin. Then, he heard her exhale before she started to speak again:

"It's evening," she started simply. "The sun is just starting to set, and it gives everything around us a golden hue. Right ahead of us, there is this gravel pathway. It is still brownish gray in occasional splashes of shadow, but in the yellow light it reflects patches of purple. Down the road, along its left side, there are two more benches just like the one we're sitting on. All wooden, thick auburn planks of equal length lined up to form a gentle curve. Just where the path ends, look up just a little and there are these tall, mighty trees, each layer made up of black and green, and even the green comes in different shades…"

And next to her, Cloud trembled slightly as he soaked in every word. He barely remembered what was golden or brown, what was green or gray, but listening to her, it was almost as though he could see and identify each one again. She was speaking more smoothly, more easily, her very tone changing as she seemed to pick up every little action, every little thing that moved in the living picture before her. It was as though she, too, was seeing everything anew, with a changed perspective, and her hushed voice was filled with a quiet, wondrous awe.

It was refreshing… it was different.

The blond noticed it, in the the way she spoke to him and the way that she described all that was about her, so _different_ from Leon's manner. Through his strange tinny "voice", Leon always had a thoughtful, perhaps poetic way of carrying his words. He preferred describing things as a whole, pinpointing activities going around them before any more intimate and personal illustrations of what, exactly, they looked like. As though he were reading a book like a tired adult to a child, trying to explain its surreal contents along the way.

Tifa read that same book like the wide-eyed child would. It didn't matter if it was real or even minutely believable in context – all that was worldly was so briefly cast aside, skepticism expended, in favor of full immersion into the story, into the passages that brought the fairy tale to life. Even if she could not truly understand something, it did not stop her from appreciating its presence, of pointing it out in barely withheld excitement. Her interest was so very infectious, coaxing him to try and map for himself the wonders that her eyes beheld.

Tifa carried a passion in her voice that was brimming with… _something_. Something that he could not quite grasp, but it felt warm… felt reassuring. It was so much like the faint, dream-like memories he held for a time long ago, a time where he was carefree and happy.

And he wondered… was this how _light_ felt like?

"_Hey._"

At once Cloud startled from his reverie at the familiar call, but took a moment longer to take in all the sounds about him before he could remember where he was. He was still sitting on the park bench, but Tifa was no longer there; a patch of warm wood was the sole evidence that she had left not too long ago. Leon was by his side again, two fingers poking at his kneecap. Now, he turned his head in a rough estimation of where he heard the raspy voice that he knew so well by now.

"How did it go?"

"_Same as usual,_" Leon answered, "_but I suppose it works. The pain's easier to deal with every day._"

"That's good."

The other man hummed. "_… Where were you in that head of yours?_"

"Where…?" Cloud paused, his still uncovered eyes narrowing, "Just how long have you been here?"

"_Long enough,_" was Leon's reply. "_Long enough to listen in on part of your conversation… Long enough to notice that look in your eyes._"

Cloud scoffed. "Yeah? And what did they look like?"

"_They looked like you love her._"

The blond froze, his hand fisting over the worn blindfold, as he suddenly doubted the very ears he had relied on all his life.

"… _You love her,_" Leon repeated, the raspy voice soft and serious. Cloud could feel something immaterial bear on him – felt it tingling at this brain – and knew that the other man was staring at him. If only he could just _place_ the expression on the man's face, to catch the manner in which those three words were said.

"You're mistaken," he muttered back, only to receive a snort. There was the same mewling of wheels rubbing against the pavement, and then the fingers were replaced by knuckles rapping at his knee.

"_Am__ I?_"

He was not teasing openly, nor was he rattling in details over anything else he had seen between them. In his own, quiet way, he was stating that he knew what he saw, and he knew what it meant. He just wanted to hear Cloud admit it. In response, Cloud could only sink back wearily and nurse an impending migraine. Leon did not speak again for a while, simply waiting. He held his silence until his blond partner spoke again, giving voice to what plagued him:

"I'm not worthy of her," he uttered bitterly. "I don't think I'm worthy of anyone."

The cheery mood was gone, replaced by something darker, more somber. Leon's hand stilled. "_… Cloud-_"

"_Look_ at me," he snapped angrily. "I'm a beggar. I'm blind. I get through each day by earning spare change from performing in the streets. The clothes on my very back haven't seen soap for _years_. We just spent the last rainy season at a _church_ because we couldn't afford a decent shelter of our own. Every good meal we've had was out of charity, out of _her_ charity…"

He paused, his anger giving way to something more depressing: a sense of inferiority, of worthlessness…

"… I could never give to her what she needs. All that I _can_ give will never be enough… She deserves so much more than a blind man who panhandles to survive."

At first, there was silence, the words hanging heavily in the air. Then, gently, Leon countered the argument: "_And you think she sees all that?_"

"Why wouldn't she?" he retorted. "_Her_ eyes work fine, don't they?"

Leon whistled again, then openly chortled through his "voice" as his knuckles resumed rapping at Cloud's knee. "_You of all people know there are things beyond what the eyes can see._"

Without anything else in his arsenal, Cloud could only slump forward and bury his face in his hands, groaning deeply into his palms as all the thoughts in his head fought each other for prevalence.

"… Why must you encourage me?" he asked morosely. The knuckles were replaced by a hand, and the warmth traveling through the cloth and into his knee gave him a moment's pause, as much as the words that came next:

"_You've encouraged __me__. It's only fair._"

"… And what if she does not feel the same way?"

This time there was another amused whistle, and the hand reformed into a fist to knock at his kneecap again. No words were said – no "ye of little faith" lectures or jibes of the future. Just the merry amusement of Punch as he subtly mocked Judy for displaying such painfully obtuse ignorance.

Cloud realized that the whistling, in a way, was all he needed to hear.

* * *

No matter how much courage he summed up, it was still embarrassing for him to – in an act of traitorous defiance against his paranoia – actually sit down and talk with Tifa. There were many occasions after that particular confession where he was tempted to find a gas stove just so he could stick his head in and wait to die.

Tifa did not turn him down flat as he had expected, but she did request that they take things slowly, a day at a time. She also had a few conditions, the first of which was that he had to accept her offer of work in the bar, and the wages that came with it. The lounge singer – an aspiring young artist called Yuffie – was looking for musicians as accompaniment, and Cloud could easily fit the bill. Cloud added to it by requesting Leon be given the same job opportunity. A knowing smile graced her features as she agreed.

The second – absolutely nonnegotiable – was to remove his blindfold once and for all, which she proceeded to do right away before he could stop her. As he blinked reflexively, his expression so childishly confused, he managed to ask why this was so important. She merely smiled and pushed his unruly fringe out of his eyes, deciding that he was going to need a haircut before he started working. Though they did not focus on her, those eyes of blue-green beheld so many emotions that were suddenly naked without their shield, leaving the man more open to her than before.

"This is why," she had answered vaguely, and left it at that.

From that point forward, life changed for them. All of them.

Every evening, within the same set of hours, the bar was filled with music. As noisy a person Yuffie turned out to be, she was not bad for a singer. Or a dancer, considering how the girl just simply _refused_ to keep still. Of the pair of new recruits, she decided – to the man's chagrin – that she liked Leon better for his squeaky fake voice and how much easier it was to tackle him whenever she got into the mood for an impromptu hug.

Aerith – who turned out to be the bar's proprietor and not an employee – was already somewhat attached to Leon through their other "business" relationship. It did not take her too long after that to warm up to Cloud as well. Both men discovered a hidden matronly side to her that she rarely seemed to show to outsiders, and consequently put up with her fussing over their unkempt appearances and, especially, their individual needs for a shower and a change of clothes.

It took too much patience and time to convince the once penniless pair that working for her wasn't entirely charity, that they were still expected to pull their own weight like the rest of the employees. Tifa remembered fondly their first argument over something as trivial as the introduction of the tip jar – it had somehow upset the blond, either offending or confusing him. They never sorted that one out, but it had in its time actually been funnier to watch than to participate in. And more arguments of similar triviality promised to follow – which couple didn't argue over little details, after all?

As for Cloud, to actually make a somewhat decent living gave him a necessary boost to his self-esteem and a greater sense of responsibility than before. With a roof over his head, food at a table and the promise of tomorrow to look forward to, he went from worrying about his collection to concerns over how finely tuned his banjo was. He started to appreciate the clean smell that came from the necessity of being well-groomed for the customers' sake, regardless of how quickly the ever-lingering alcohol fumes would taint it. He especially appreciated his newfound privilege to actually save his money in hopes of buying something expensive within his lifetime.

But as for Leon…

"_Damn it, Cloud,_" Leon growled irritably. "_Put me down._"

With one arm wrapped around the man's pinned arms and waist and the other hand slapped over his eyes, Cloud did not comply with the order. Instead, he called down to the back room. "Now?"

"Not yet," Aerith called back. "Don't you let go of him."

"_What have you people done with my wagon?_" Leon demanded hotly, earning only an indignant snort from Yuffie.

"That old thing? C'mon Leon! You won't be needing that dinghy box on wheels anymore!"

"_That dinghy box on wheels is my lifeline!_" he protested vehemently in his high-pitched "voice", leaving no one to take him seriously. Squirming uncomfortably, he flinched as the other man responded by tightening his hold. "_Looks like someone's been eating well,_" he mumbled, unappreciative for the blond man's added strength. "_You're selling me out for food, aren't you?_"

"How about now?" Cloud called, ignoring any further complaints, accusations and protests from the captive he was practically hugging on his lap.

"Just a little longer… we're coming out now!"

And sure enough, the door to the back room swung noisily open. Muted squeaking could be heard, along with the grinding of rubber treads against the floor tiles. For a brief moment, Leon stopped struggling, frozen as he listened, recognizing what he was hearing.

"… Okay, let him loose. Eyes first, though."

Cloud's hand dropped to his side, revealing a sight that Leon never thought he would see again. He was not even sure if it was real, not daring to so much as touch it.

"We'll be having a photo shoot soon," Aerith explained, a warm smile on her face, "and if you're staying, you'll have to look more presentable for a lasting image, won't you?"

That was a lie, a big fat one considering the very fact that she was standing there, presenting the stunned man with a wheelchair. Admittedly, it was pretty obviously pieced together from bicycle parts, and it looked like it had seen too many previous owners to remain in its top form, but it was still sturdy and reliable. It was recently cleaned up, actually shining a little, and it just sat there innocently, waiting for him.

"… _I can't pay for this,_" he finally croaked, still not daring to move so much as a hand in its direction.

"Sure you can," Tifa answered easily. "Just in installments. A little out of your salary each time, and before you know it, it'll be fully paid for."

"_Maybe I should just… keep my wagon…_" and he almost pleaded,_ "I can, can't I?_"

"Don't be such a baby, Lee!" Yuffie teased, leaning forward to prop her elbows over the backrest. "We want the photographer to take a shot of you, not trip over you! Hurry, Cloudy! Move him!"

Though he didn't appreciate his nickname, Cloud understood her motive, and was already rising from his seated position. He had been expecting the man to put up some sort of fight and protest further, but Leon was surprisingly meek as he was carried along and – with some guidance from the three ladies – deposited into his new seat. But there he stayed, unmoving, so very silent save for his quiet breathing.

The blond nearly jumped when the smaller girl's victorious whoop filled the air, and something squeaked and creaked from being moved violently. He did not have to ask what was going on, though, as Yuffie's next declaration was informative enough.

"Someone, quick! Find me a match! I'm burning this thing to the ground! I'm burning the _ground_ it stands on to the ground!"

"Yuffie!" Someone was laughing over the exclamation.

"And then I'll jump on it…!"

Cloud turned to the source of the commotion that was starting to move away, but he didn't get far as a hand grabbed his and held on tight.

"_Don't let them,_" Leon was whispering, so soft that only the blind man's sensitive ears could pick it up. "_Don't let them kill my wagon._"

Before he could reply, Cloud felt the faintest of tremors from the fingers that clutched at his so desperately. He could only wonder what memories the man was reliving from his days in the safehouse, from the time he had lost his faith in somehow getting a life of stability.

His hand turned, squeezing in reassurance. "This isn't like before, Leon," he whispered back, lest the girls heard him. "This time, it's real. It _will_ last."

"_It's the only insurance I'll ever have,_" Leon protested, as though he had not been listening. "_Let me keep it._"

"You won't need it anymore."

"_Please…_"

It hurt to hear the other man say that word with so much fear in him, fear that a fake voice could not hide. His grip on the hand tightened even as his stance softened.

"I'll go after them and get it back," he assured. "But on one condition."

"_Name it,_" the other replied at once.

"Don't use it again, not when you don't have to," Cloud listed, revealing his own concern. "Don't you go leaving me behind."

"_This life is meant to be yours, not mine,_" Leon argued. "_I'm not the one she's in a relationship with._"

The hold squeezed almost painfully.

"Don't leave me behind," Cloud repeated forcefully. Then their hands parted, and his fingers found instead the smooth surface of the counter, his reference to navigate his way through the now familiar setting of the bar they were in. Neither man had noticed that they had been watched from the doorway, or that the one who saw their exchange – if not heard it – had turned away, focused instead on Yuffie's new "victim".

Playtime and humoring of the crazy girl ended abruptly before she could administer any gasoline.

* * *

As it turned out, Aerith had not been kidding about the photo shoot after all. The man who showed up a week later was tall and thin, with shoulder length hair dyed in the color of cherry blossoms and a frivolous, unnecessarily effeminate manner. Cloud was confused about him because he couldn't tell from smell or sound if this man was really a man at all, and wasn't about to let the guy close enough to touch him. Leon, on the other hand, took one look at the loud hair and just didn't like him at all.

Regardless, he seemed to know his job, and set about it with such drive and personal pride that one couldn't help but respect him for at least that. He was practical about every little detail – where the light should be coming in, how much light there should be per se, and so on. When he was allowed freedom for candid shots he was everywhere, climbing around everything as he insisted on angles that enabled him to capture not just a picture, but emotions and themes that were raw and natural. Yuffie loved every second of it.

As the performance ended for the evening, they finally reigned the man back in for a few group shots before they would call it a day. The first was taken with them all bunched together, just barely fitting in the frame despite Yuffie, Riku and Cloud still sitting on the stage while everyone else – Leon and Tifa on either side, Aerith in the center – took seats just below it. Then the twins wanted to be in on it, and there were some delightfully snapped shots of three adolescents posing comically all about the empty stage.

Another shot was taken of just Aerith and Tifa, the two who had come together first to set up the bar – this bar – that they wished to live up to its name. Several photos from that sequence had the two ladies before the counter, by the seats, up on the stage, and a few from just outside the doors. Another "girls only" sequence followed it, with Yuffie happily joining in with her own comedic element.

One picture, however, turned out to be a little more personal, one that – after the film developed and the prints were sent their way – Tifa claimed right away before it could join the others on the high parts of the walls. Aerith gave her understanding by allowing the bartender to pick a spot behind her, just a little up from the counter, to set the nail and mount it in place. That way, every time Tifa turned around, it would be there for her to see first, before anyone else.

In that picture, seated together as an impromptu decision, were the trio of Leon, Tifa and Cloud. They were outside with the bar's name, "Seventh Heaven", in bright white letters over a dark window as the backdrop. On the right was Leon in his wheelchair, his shoulders hunching slightly so a forearm relaxed over each thigh. On the left was Tifa, standing tall, proud and regal with a hand crossing her chest to clutch at her opposing elbow. In the center between them was Cloud, seated stiffly on a bar stool they had taken from behind the counter with a hand on each one's arm to balance himself. Tifa's free hand had reached up to meet his, and fingers intertwined in a featherlike grasp. Leon didn't do likewise, but Cloud's firm grip was so tight that wrinkles had gathered in the long cotton sleeve.

Out of politeness, their lips were smiling.

Out of truth, their eyes were not.


End file.
